


Tramps Like Us

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Blow Job, Crossover, Crossover Pairing, Dubious Consent, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Porn Battle, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2011-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:22:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor meets up with Jack before saying goodbye in "The End of Time."  Spoilers for "Waters of Mars" and "Children of Earth."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tramps Like Us

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Porn Battle XI](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/35812.html) using the prompts _grief, loss_ and _loneliness_. Apologies to Bruce Springsteen. Many thank-yous to [](http://karaokegal.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://karaokegal.dreamwidth.org/)**karaokegal** for her Full Metal Beta!

Jack's settled himself in a seedy tavern in the capital city of Baxtia, happily anticipating a long evening of drinking himself to oblivion, when he sees the reflection of a familiar figure in the mirror in front of him.

Great. Not the person he wants to see right now. Jack sighs as the apparition approaches the bar counter, but he doesn't turn, not even when it's standing right beside him.

"Fancy meeting you here," Jack says, tips his glass to the Doctor's reflection. "Thought you'd slum with the rest of us awhile?"

The Doctor doesn't smile. Jack shrugs, goes to raise it to his lips, but the Doctor grabs his wrist, forces the hexagonal shot glass back onto the bar. It clinks hard on the metal surface.

"Jack. We need to talk."

"I'm not nearly sauced enough for that yet," Jack replies to the mirror, still carefully ignoring the real deal beside him. "But anyway. Shoot."

The Doctor looks around. "Not here."

"What, this fine establishment not good enough for you?"

"I need to talk to you in private."

"You don't get much more private than this." The bar's empty except for the gourd-shaped bartender dozing at the end of the counter. "Or we can go back to the TARDIS."

The Doctor frowns. "No, that won't do," he says. "Let's go outside." He turns on his heel and exits the way he came.

Jack downs the last of the spirit liquor in his glass, stares at the dregs, debates remaining inside just for spite. Instead he hauls himself off the stool and follows. He always drops whatever he's doing at the crook of the Doctor's beckoning finger. Some things never change.

The door swings closed behind him. It's the Baxtian rainy season, cold and foggy; the streets are deserted, the populace ensconced in their warm hydroponic houses for the night. The Doctor waits for him, hands in his overcoat pockets, under a wavering gaslight which highlights the layer of mist in his spiky hair.

"Fabulous weather for an evening stroll," Jack quips.

The two men fall in stride together, down the hard earthen street that slowly swells with moisture, leaving two firm sets of humanoid footprints. They round the corner to enter a poorly-lit alley between two restaurants. Jack expects to see the TARDIS parked there, but it's empty, save for a couple of back stoops, each lit by one small, bare gas bulb, and one long, low rubbish bin blocking the other exit. Puddles dot the ground here; the fine mist condenses between the two buildings on either side, as seen by old water tracks down the clay walls. It has the universal, sweet-sour aroma of organic decay, mixed with the heavier, earthy tang of stale mud.

"You really know how to show your dates a good time," Jack says.

The Doctor faces him. "Jack," he says, part command, part plea. "Talk to me."

Jack regards him evenly. "I have nothing to say," he says, and it's true. It's not like the Doctor would listen, anyway.

The Doctor's mouth twitches. "No, I don't suppose you would," he admits. "But I'd hoped you might--"

"Hope's for the foolish," Jack says, more resentful than he intended.

The Doctor glances at him with surprise. He then reaches out, claps his shoulder. Jack flinches at the unaccustomed contact, twists away. There's only one kind of touch, one kind of speech he's fluent in these days. One the Doctor has never spoken, not to him. Not that Jack has never tried--

Except this time the Doctor grabs Jack by his coat collar and kisses him.

Jack's eyes widen as the Doctor pries his lips open and shoves his tongue inside. He's not protesting, though. Rather he lets the Doctor continue exploring his mouth, relishing the sensation of coolness and pressure. When the Doctor lets him go, he gasps, "You call this a conversation?"

"If it's the only way to talk to you, then yes, it is." He moves in again, kissing harder this time.

Jack is more than willing to listen to the Doctor talk like this. Already hard, Jack reaches down, pulls the Doctor in flush by his arse, grinds into him. He snakes one hand round the back of his head and returns the kiss in kind. He tastes tea, dust and memory on the Doctor's tongue.

They stumble their way down the alley until they reach the rubbish bin. The Doctor props Jack against the wall, drops to his knees on the muddy ground, reaches for the fly of Jack's trousers. Jack arches into the touch. He can't believe it: a fantasy he'd only been able to wank to for hundreds of years is coming true in front of his eyes. Those long, elegant fingers make quick work of the buttons and reach inside his underwear to withdraw Jack's cock which is already straining and beading at the tip. He looks on, mesmerized.

There are no preliminaries: the Doctor licks his lips and takes Jack in all at once, to the root. Jack's knees threaten to buckle; he steadies himself using the Doctor's shoulders.

"Fuck, Doctor, give me some warning next time!"

The Doctor circles the base of Jack's cock with his thumb and middle finger, strokes with a proficient twist and sucks his cheeks in. His other hand slips round to Jack's arse. Jack groans--where the hell had the Doctor learnt that?--and lets his eyelids flutter closed. It's even better than he'd imagined on those interminable nights alone, the Doctor's head bent like this, drawing on his cock like nothing else mattered. Soon he has to keep himself from thrusting into the Doctor's mouth.

It's cold in the alley. Mist drifts down on them; Jack's breath steams, and between those gloriously wicked pulls on his cock he wonders how the Doctor's handling the wet ground. Pitted with tiny stones, squelching in mud, it has to be hard on his knees. And it's not fair, really--Jack's always been about equal opportunity, so he thinks the Doctor deserves some of the action too. They have all night--hell, they have all eternity to do this.

"Doc," he says between tiny grunts, "let's switch places for awhile."

The Doctor shakes his head, redoubles his efforts. It's unexpected for him to be so insistent on pleasuring him, and also sweet. Jack gently hooks his fingers under the Doctor's jaw, tries to tilt his head up.

"C'mon," Jack says, "your turn. Let me--"

The Doctor looks up at him then--but there is no desire in those dark eyes, only sorrow.

Jack freezes. It's a god-damn _pity fuck._

Jack almost boils with fury. He doesn't need the Doctor's pity. Doesn't want it, never has. He reaches down, whether to shove the Doctor off him, or choke him--he doesn't know. But at that instant the Doctor tightens his jaw and swirls his tongue right at that spot.

Pleasure surges straight from Jack's prick through his whole body. He doesn't care anymore that the Doctor's only blowing him out of sympathy, because Jack has always, always been weak like that. Great sex never needs a reason, does it? If it has to be a pity fuck, it's gonna be the best one Jack's ever had.

He seizes the Doctor's head, holds it firm. The Doctor glares at him, stops sucking; he tries to pull off, but Jack won't let him. From the day they met the Doctor had always called the shots in their relationship. Well, not tonight. He thrusts in and out, relentless, forcing himself into his mouth. He'd force himself down the Doctor's throat, if he could. Make him gag.

After a moment, the Doctor stops struggling; the anger fades from his eyes, is replaced by something Jack has never seen before, not from him: utter submission. He's granting permission to fuck his mouth. Jack's mind staggers from it.

But not for long. He hurtles forward into the Doctor's cool, wet mouth, slides over his tongue. The tightness of the Doctor's lips around Jack's shaft propels him higher and higher and God, it's been too long since Jack has thrummed like this. A minuscule part of him wonders why the Doctor's letting Jack debase him at his feet--but the remaining 99.9 % of him is driven by lust and couldn't care less.

Rushing, rushing, rushing, Jack pumps his hips like a piston into that glorious, dark hole. A few minutes later he's almost there, just out of reach, when the Doctor's mouth slackens. Jack groans with frustration. Then he feels the Doctor latch on, feels one last, desperate tug on his cock, and it sends him over the edge. Pulsing, flying, falling, he empties himself into the Doctor's mouth, jet after jet after jet, still clenching the Doctor's head like a vise.

Jack doesn't release his grip on the Doctor until he's spent and soft, his cock twitching. The Doctor spits on the ground, wipes spilled semen from his lips with his sleeve. Jack sags, his legs jellified. The Doctor rolls back on his haunches out of the way while Jack slides to the ground, into the puddle of muck at his feet. His head lolls; he peers at the Doctor through his lashes.

"Anyone ever tell you that you make a great fuck toy?" Jack laughs--no, he giggles, with a sharp edge.

The Doctor simply regards him with a mixture of sadness, regret, and guilt on his face. The last remnants of bliss vanish; fresh, raw bitterness rears up. "Don't try those kicked puppy-dog eyes on me," Jack snaps. "That stopped working long ago."

"I heard what happened with the 456. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, you're always sorry. It doesn't mean squat anymore." Jack turns his head away to look down the alley.

"You're right."

The truth of the statement echoes in Jack's ears. A straight answer from the Doctor, how about that. Jack's mouth twists into an ugly parody of a smile. "So what does bring you here to this backwards dump of a planet? Besides a pity fuck?"

The Doctor doesn't answer, simply lays a hand on Jack's shoulder. Jack looks at him. "You've got to be kidding me," he says.

"Time for you to go home, Jack. Time to stop running."

"Says the expert. What are you running from these days? Killed anyone you loved lately?"

Oh, that hit home. The Doctor's jaw tightens and he pushes Jack back against the wall when he lets go of his shoulder. He rises and turns away, his coat swirling around him, begins to stalk down the alley.

But Jack's on a roll. "You're a fucking piece of work, you know that? You find out about what happened, decide a blow job'll fix Jack right up, then run away again. What do you do when you want to fix the universe, destroy it?"

The Doctor stops short, stiffens; he turns and strides back. He towers over Jack, his face hard, his eyes a study in ancient fury. Jack shrinks away, just a step from cowering. He's never had the Oncoming Storm directed at him before. Though part of him would welcome it, would savor the blackness, the silence, for however long it lasted.

But the rage drains from the Doctor's face, to be replaced by weariness just as heavy. "Best tuck yourself back in," he says instead. "Don't want an obscenity charge on this planet."

Jack shakes his head in disbelief, that the Doctor could think of something so mundane, though he does straighten his clothes. When he finishes, he grimaces at the Doctor.

"Better now?"

"It'll do."

The Doctor gazes at him with an unreadable expression. Jack forces down a sudden lump of misery. How he'd loved this man once (and still does), worshipped him, wanted to be him. He got that wish, didn't he? With all the requisite blood on his hands, too. He wishes the Doctor had warned him about that.

But maybe the Doctor can tell him something useful.

"Hey. Can I ask you one thing before you take off again?"

The Doctor's jaw sets, but he nods.

"How do you do it?"

He blinks. "How do I do what?"

"Manage?"

The Doctor swallows, glances away. When he meets Jack's gaze again, Jack could weep at the bleakness in his eyes because God, how he knows it too.

"I don't," he says softly. "I run, and try to forget."

"Does that ever work?"

The Doctor's half-smile is brutal. "Once upon a time I thought it did." He squats again on the muddy ground in front of Jack; his overcoat trails in the muck. "And I suppose shagging your way round the universe isn't working for you, either."

"It's not enough," Jack says. He means to be flippant, but to his horror, his breath catches in a dry sob. "It's never enough."

He tries to turn away, but the Doctor gathers Jack in his arms, tucks his head under his chin. Jack closes his eyes and leans into him, clings to the beat of his hearts and breathes in his scent: wet leather, ash, and mourning. "I know," the Doctor says, his own voice hoarse. "But sometimes it's all we have. Until we learn to live with what we've done."

"Or what we've become?"

"Or what we've become."

Jack can only nod. The Doctor's reply is not a comfort, but it is an understanding, and it's something tangible to hold onto. Then the Doctor's arms tighten around him, as if he needs this to be true too. They stay huddled in the dank, mist-filled alley for a long time.

The Doctor does not take Jack back to the TARDIS though. He takes him back to his quarters instead, a small room above the bar where they'd met earlier that evening. He goes to fetch a plate of food, a cup of what passes for tea, and a flask of Baxtian whisky from the barkeep while Jack cleans himself up in the communal bathroom. But he is gone by the time Jack returns. Only the plate, mug, decanter, and a few clumps of caked blue mud from his trainers remain as evidence that he'd ever been on Baxtia.

Jack eats, and drinks; finishes the alcohol, and crawls into bed. The cold's done him in for the evening. It's only as he drifts off that Jack truly wonders about what sin the Doctor had committed to bring him here.


End file.
